Life of a Lumberman
by RuthieGreen
Summary: Fall/Winter 1884: What got William interested/inspired to travel west to Toronto & apply to the Constabulary? An "origins" story about what was behind this decision. Thank you Maureen Jennings & the show writers for letting us play in your world. Thanks as well to I'dBeDelighted for helping me with my 'style.' Dear Reader: I am eager for reviews -you help me do better!
1. Chapter 1

_**The Life of a Lumberman**_

 _Wikipedia says:_

"… _The term_ _ **lumberjack**_ _is of Canadian derivation. The first attested use of the word comes from an 1831 letter to the_ _Cobourg_ _Star and General Advertiser_ _in the following passage: "...my misfortunes have been brought upon me chiefly by an incorrigible, though perhaps useful, race of mortals called LUMBERJACKS, whom, however, I would name the Cossack's of Upper Canada, who, having been reared among the oaks and pines of the wild forest, have never been subjected to the salutary restraint of laws." -_ _Tyler Rudd Putman. 2012-06-05_ _. Retrieved_ _2013-05-12"_

 **Chapter One**

 **Late Fall, 1884**

" _Viens! Se dépêcher!"_ 'Taureau' Charbonneau's booming voice was yelling "move it!" for other men to get up there and help quickly. William Murdoch knew that sort of order only meant one thing, so he tore up the ridge as fast as his boots could take him through the thick underbrush, dodging fallen branches and stumps on his way, fighting his fears as he went. The foreman was pulling on one end of what looked to be part of a tree, too large to shift single handedly with one branch buried perpendicularly in the ground like a great ship's anchor. William stood beside him and heaved mightily, feeling the tear and stretch of his shoulders and back under the burden. Daniel and Martin joined in right behind him with their tools as levers, allowing the four of them to wrest the log off of a prone figure dressed in a traditional _capote._

 _Tremblay!_ Everyone knew that coat made from a Bay blanket belonged to Jean Tremblay, the camp's steam engine mechanic. The men turned him over and William was the first to reach under the coat's cowl and feel for a pulse of life at the neck. Nothing. William looked up into the anxious eyes of his fellows and shook his head.

" _Mort,"_ he told them simply-but they already knew. Tremblay's body was flaccid and his usually ruddy face was pale. William made the sign of the cross along with the other men standing over the body, and rose off his knees, seeing that a few others had joined the scene. He looked up at the space through which the huge branch had carved wreckage in the forest canopy, sending a prayer heavenward for the man's immortal soul.

"Will, go to the barn and get the stretcher," Daniel asked in English. "We'll bring him down together."

William looked to Charbonneau who nodded in agreement, then made his way through thick trees over to the trail to make his way down the hill into main camp, reminding himself he needed to find his own tools and get them sorted before it was too dark to find them.

 _Just another day on the mountain._

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William ate at his usual place along the central wooden table, trying to stuff as much food into himself as he could in the silent fifteen minutes allowed for their morning meal-the pungent smell of wet wool, unwashed bodies and smoke doing nothing to curb his appetite. He needed fuel for the job, so he systematically chewed and swallowed – quick meals left little time to appreciate any taste. In the dim lantern light he saw his fellow lumberjacks were no more pleased with the icy conditions howling outside the log walls than he, but no one voiced any complaints.

William glanced at his companions shoveling their own food down. There were no _old_ lumberjacks. The job required the ability of one man to do the work of three (and eat for three), from five in the morning to well after dark, six days a week, for up to four months a year in very tough winter conditions, all for the business of cutting and hauling trees down off the northern Canadian Shield. Every man at the table was taller than average in order to effectively use axe and saw, and was well-muscled from hard physical labour. William's twenty-one year-old body matched theirs, just like all the farmers and farmer's sons who joined the trade each winter.

William's third Fall as a lumberjack was going well now that he was no longer a latrine-digging bull-cock, which is what all new general-labour men were called until they found their place in a crew: 'tested until trusted.' He beat out several other men for the job of high - climber this season because of his experience as a lopper and agility at quickly and accurately attaching the pulleys and rigging to the trees.

Anything to get out of digging. Today he was not so smug about that. _Be careful what you wish for,_ his mother often told him. High - climbing was going to be ugly today, but there was nothing for it. The final crew-members of their logging camp having arrived earlier in the week, meant that today, Saturday, must be the last day of set up before the serious business of winter tree-felling commenced,

His spoon scraped the last of his breakfast just as the crew chief, a giant of a man named Blanchard, called: _"Allez!"_

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"Descends, nous partons!" William flew down the hillside to the steam whistle blow, never so happy to hear foreman Charbonneau announce the end of a work day. His legs traversed the hard uneven ground and his arms and shoulders bore the heavy tools of his trade. The ice, coating every tree and surface, was finally so bad it was too dangerous even for a high-baller crew like theirs to continue. He was soaked through, frozen stiff, with hands so numb the cold no longer burned when he wrestled the chains with bare hands.

A line of shivering men snaked a path back to camp and he joined their clouds of breath, forming some sort of French-speaking dragon disappearing into the forest. Daniel, his bunkmate and the only other _Anglais_ in the whole camp, fell into place besides him. "We start cuttin' tomorrow, Will. Some of the last of the original white pine is here, a hundred and fifty or more feet high, five feet across. You know I think it'll be a shame when it is all gone," the older man said. Daniel Beecham was, at thirty-nine, a fifteen year veteran as a lumberjack and among the most experienced men on the crew. He worked nearly year 'round as a surveyor in summer, a faller in the winter and a _draveur_ on the water come spring.

"Ah, Daniel. How can it ever be all gone?" William asked anyway, slipping on some ice. "Millions of acres and only a handful of men."

"Seems to me that half the men in the whole country take a turn or two up here-even book-worms," Daniel poked at William good naturedly. "The shipwrights, railroads and paper mills have a larger appetite than even Blanchard," he laughed. "And the government has a bottomless greed for the licensing revenue. It'll outlast me, and maybe you if you can take it, but soon… all this will be gone. We have already driven the Algonquin, the Mi'kmaq…so many others away. No—it'll all change. Mark my words, Will." Daniel's grey eyes squinted against the stinging ice which was still coming down in earnest. "Ending early today means we can give Tremblay his funeral. His brother-in-law, François Gagnon, says he has no other family so we will bury him here rather than send him home to his wife, and since he was not Catholic, we won't need the priest."

William considered the dead man. He had learned about the workings of the steam engine from Jean Tremblay, but did not like him, in large part because he tortured William with name calling his first year, calling him _Merde-eau_ instead of _Murdoch_ until William put a stop to it.

William gave a perfect imitation of the Gallic shrug. "Father Campeau never seems to mind—the only thing he will not abide is communion. He would lay Tremblay to rest, but he will not arrive until tomorrow morning with the mail." Many working-men were buried beside the great achievements of 'Man' - along the railroads, the canals, dams and bridges of old and modern times, including up here in lumber country. Imagining making a grave in the ice-crusted cold earth and knotted root systems of the forest, William found himself thinking he was glad he was not digging that particular hole _,_ before recognizing he was being callous. "We will have a service and prayers before supper I assume."

Daniel laughed and slapped William on the back. " _Food!_ Will you're a true lumberjack if you can think of food above all. Cook will not have it ready until the usual time and you know the Company will dock us half a day today," Daniel said without hard feelings. "On the other hand we have all night to ourselves and all day tomorrow to sleep!"

Back at the shanty, William cleaned and sorted his gear with care since failing to do so would cost more than a portion of his pay-badly maintained equipment could get him killed. He checked on the rigging, axes and crosscut saw he and Daniel would be using Monday and took the blades to Old Gavin for a sharpening. Listening to the whine of metal on stone, William looked forward to the start of logging on Monday.

He struck up a conversation with the filer about weather, a perennial subject of conversation amongst all lumbermen everywhere, and the man surprised him by asking if he was going to talk to Charbonneau about taking over Tremblay's job. William actually _had_ been vaguely entertaining the notion of proposing himself as fill-in steam engineer at least in the short run. "No, Gavin," he continued in French. "I am still young and strong and happy with my lot here."

"And I am old and only fit for this!" Gavin motioned to his grinding wheel. Age and injury eventually took all men out or moved them to less physically demanding aspects of the job unless they were outright killed.

William smiled. "If I am asked I will help of course but I want the higher pay!" Both men chuckled, since money was the other constant on every man's mind.

"I worry about your future Guillaume…. To be a man is to be forged and sharpened like these blades, no? Too much time with your books and too much time with your priest will make you soft!"

William accepted the criticism, since he'd been thinking more or less the same things recently. He figured that while he was young and strong he might make a go of it in logging considering nothing else up to this point had worked out-ranch hand, railroad worker, clerking and even a stint at house-building failed to capture his attention sufficiently. Life in a _Québécois_ lumber-shanty was, in some ways, similar to a priestly vocation or his time at St. Ignatius. A predominately Roman Catholic, isolated, all-male communal life: up before dawn, long hours, strict discipline, silent meals and many prayers. All of that felt natural to him, even if he missed intellectual stimulation. _But that is what those books are for_ , he told himself.

"Gavin, can I tell you something? Please do not let on to anyone, but I am already going to ask if I can stay on all year."

Gavin rewarded him with a gap-toothed smile of encouragement. "You are with Beecham this year, lucky dog. He's as good as any man was back in my day and he will teach you to be safe and wise, Guillaume, if you pay attention to him."

"That is true." William was very pleased he was going to be partnered up with Daniel this season, planning to prove himself worthy of another promotion. He could not have named it, and would have denied it were it brought to his attention, but underneath it all William was seeking a place for himself where he felt he could belong.

Once he was satisfied the blades were sharp, he thanked Gavin and put them away with the rest of their gear. Most of the remaining workers were doing likewise before retreating to their log bunkhouses to warm up and try to get dry.

"Ici, Guillaume. Prenez du thé et réchauffer. Vous ressemblez à un lapin noyé!"

"Merci." William accepted the offered mug of hot tea with pleasure upon entering his bunkhouse. Traditionally, the men made sure to wash or mend their clothing and grease their boots (or take a Saturday night wash up if they were going to go so far as that) so that Sunday was a true day of rest. No one wanted to do that yet, not until Tremblay was six feet under. Steam rose from his cup and from the assembled men, most of whom had shed layers of stinking clothing which now festooned the rafters, making the air uncomfortably thick and moist. Their camp was French-speaking, so morbid jokes and teasing flew in rapid _patois_.

William drained his tea and closed his eyes, sinking down on the so-called deacon bench, a long split-log which served as bunkhouse seating, enveloped in blessed warmth. He never knew he'd drifted off until Blanchard cuffed him sideways.

"Guillaume! Allez! Beecham vous veut." Blanchard gestured outside with a thumb. "Le hangar de glace."

 _The ice house?_ William scrubbed his whiskered face and looked out the small window. There was no apparent let-up in the ice-storm. Blanchard inform him: "Nous mettrons Tremblay dans le sol en trente minutes, Dieu le benisse." _Half an hour until the funeral. It will be a short affair, given the weather_ , William thought. He rose to find Daniel.

William walked across the camp to the ice house where Tremblay's body was stored. There was a light coming through a crack under the door, and he was startled to find Daniel inside with Tremblay's body partially unwrapped from its shroud. "Daniel! Good Lord! What are you doing?"

"Look here, William. D'you see this?" he asked as he raised the lantern higher. "We found Tremblay crushed under that tree - I helped you pick up that bitch off his back. But something bothered me all day about it after we carried him down, so I came in here t'see for m'self. His body doesn't seem to have any broken bones." Daniel turned the corpse's head further to the left. "The back of his head is stove in. I don't think the tree was what killed him."

"Why are you telling me? Is that not something for Charbonneau or someone from the Company?" William asked reasonably. Rideau River Camp Number Six was set up twelve miles from the nearest depot, much farther than that from official law enforcement. He thought highly of the foreman, whose position out here in the forest made him a powerful combination of village mayor, sole banker and town judge.

"Charbonneau wasn't overly fond of Tremblay—we all know he tolerated him and paid him so well because he was the only one who could fix the engines when they crapped out. Tremblay had no business being up there on the mountain to have a tree fall on him and it was Charbonneau who found him, Will. What if it was Charbonneau who killed him?"

 **X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X0**

 **To any native French-speaking readers—(JuliaJoyBell particularly) - I humbly apologize for relying on Google translation since my French is execrable despite taking it for ten friggin' years. If Google does to English to French translation anything close what it does to French to English translation, I am grateful you even bother to slog through it my stories when I insist on murdering your mother language- Merci!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Saturday evening was the only meal during the work week which allowed for some relaxed conversation. Tonight the bunkhouse men's talk was loud and gay as an antidote to facing mortality, having just buried one of their own, with Blanchard holding noisy court.

"Will! I want to check out our gear —come when you're done," Daniel announced as he pushed his empty plate away. William nodded and kept eating his own stew and biscuit, hoping to save room for the apple-cobbler dessert. Frowning, he watched Daniel exit into the night, his mind troubled by what the older man had revealed earlier at the ice house: suspecting 'Taureau' Charbonneau of killing Jean Tremblay was a shocking idea to say the least. When his stomach was finally full, William excused himself to re-dress and walk in the sleet to the equipment shed. Daniel obviously wanted to talk with him out of earshot of the rest of them.

Daniel greeted William with a grunt, running his finger over one of the concave felling axe blades. "I see you have sharpened everything—and no dirt or worn areas on the rigging. aAways get the best you can and then take care of it." He was laying out each piece on a work table. "You learned that you have to trust your equipment," he said with approval.

"Yes. It should all be in order. Is that why you wanted to see me?" William asked.

"No…of course not. You seemed upset with me after the burial service," Daniel observed.

William thought about the funeral over which Charbonneau so solemnly presided. _Could he have murdered Jean Tremblay?_ William asked himself, but answered Daniel. "I am just confused. How are you going to allege one of us is a killer and then do nothing?"

"I tried to get the burial delayed, but I could hardly say outright to the foreman's face that I suspected him, now could I? I have no proof."

"Why did you tell me this?" William asked. "Why me?"

"I trust you," Daniel answered. "You're young, Will, but I've watched you closely, or I wouldn't have picked a mere third-season man to work with me this year. You a serious person, perhaps a bit too serious for a man your age, but you work hard, don't carouse and don't gossip. I think I've gotten to know something else about you-you want to know the truth, don't you?"

While it was flattering to be taken seriously by Daniel, the conversation was pulling him into familiar territory. His agitation with all of it made his head hurt just above his right eye so he rubbed the spot unconsciously. William had no idea what to say in return, averting his face from those questioning grey eyes. "What are you planning to do?" he asked cautiously.

"I want to find out what weapon might've done the deed." Daniel gestured around the shed. "I wanted to look at all the axes and hooks. See here?" He pointed to the end of a rounded handle. "I think this is the same size and shape as the wound I saw. What do you think?"

Against his better judgment, William's eyes calculated the diameter and circumference of the handle and compared it to his visual memory of what Daniel showed him in the ice house. It seemed a perfect match. "Yes. I see what you mean. But so what? We have three or four-dozen of those, not to mention the blanks set aside for repairs—or even a rolling pin! You have a _possible_ weapon for a _possible_ injury." William still resisted the notion that one of their own was responsible for Tremblay's death, especially the foreman. "Why would someone do such a thing?" It made no sense to him. Out here, a man's word truly was his bond; men who stole or were untrustworthy were weeded out pretty rapidly, which kept relationships between the workers on an even keel. This notion of murder violated William's sense of order and stirred darker memories.

Daniel smiled slyly. "Ah… you mean motive. It can't be _only_ that someone could not stomach his ways. If that were so, he'd have been put out of our misery years ago, one way or the other." He waited until William smiled sourly.

"Yes…" William answered. "And yes, Tremblay was a hard man to know."

"Yes-he was a difficult man, yet you put up with him for what he could teach you about that mechanical steam beast I know you are fascinated by. Don't forget, some of the men are still skeptical of _you_ , my fine young friend, because you can read and write, have your nose in books and use big book-smart words, even if they make use of you as a scribe because they're illiterate. It makes 'em feel small…No, I know you don't look down on 'em," he said when William objected. "But wounded feelings, jealously or revenge can be a motive for action. Out here is a place where men come to be men-and men sometimes are hot headed and unreasonable."

William agreed. While it did not happen often, arguments or even brawls occasionally erupted in a camp. Punishment was meted out swiftly and impartially-the men involved were usually heavily fined or even immediately dismissed. "So, why now? Why risk it?" It seemed illogical to William.

"It's a puzzle, isn't it? You ask all the right questions, Will. Indeed-what drove someone to act now? Daniel was thoughtful. "Who's available to either take Tremblay up there, or follow him, and then kill him and pull a tree down on top of him to cover it up?"

William remembered where Tremblay's body was found a few yards off the trail, and in his vivid imagination he ran through the various scenarios, recalling how fiercely the wind had taken up for a moment right at dusk. "What if the tree actually came down on him accidentally…then, rather than help him, someone took the chance to finish him off?"

Daniel gave a penetrating look towards William. "My, my! A crime of opportunity, not premeditated then? Good one. Just out there having a leak and…boom?" He narrowed his eyes then shook his head. "No—his trews were up where they belong, unlike that poor bugger who drowned on furlough last year. But perhaps just out there and unlucky." He turned to William. "The question becomes who had the opportunity? Then amongst those, who had motive?"

For a moment William was back at St. Ignatius facing a blackboard problem in class. He imagined two interlocking circles sorting two overlapping sets of data, and in the center would be the answer. He was grinning without knowing he did so. "That narrows down the choices, but it is still so many. How shall we ever find out?" William was now intrigued.

Daniel noticed William said _'we'_. "I got the day's assignments from Charbonneau's office clerk. We can eliminate some right away I imagine, those who were constantly in plain sight, still working in a team in the company of others, or too far up the ridge. I think we can bypass the new crew members for now, they haven't had the pleasure of knowing Tremblay so there has hardly been time for a homicidal motive to erupt. Then we take it upon ourselves to verify the whereabouts of whomever is left…I have an idea about that." He put the last of the equipment away and replaced his gloves, sharing the job roster with William. "I think we start in the barn—each of us can inquire where everyone on this list was when that big wind came through." Daniel said as he cocked an ear. "Sounds to me that DuBois has his squeeze box out—again!"

William heard music drifting over, suddenly aware that the sounds of ice and hail spitting against the building had stopped. That meant that the weather had turned, probably to the promised snow. A quick glance out the door confirmed his suspicions, seeing huge white flakes falling down between the shed and the barn. By the time Daniel and William locked up the shed, DuBois' concertina music was joined by two fiddles, a bodhran, a whistle, plus who-knew-what-else noise-makers, coming from the direction of the barn to celebrate the standing up of the camp and the start of serious logging come Monday. "It will be too loud in there to ask anyone anything with all that singing and shouting." William complained as they drew near.

"Nonsense. Bring up Tremblay's death, and how the big wind affected their work - none of those blokes will be able to stop themselves from telling you their story. What's a lumberjack without a tall tale?" Daniel paused by the barn door before shoving it open with a shoulder. "Start the conversation and then sit back and listen…"

An onslaught of noise hit William's ears. "Daniel! How am I to listen to anything in the middle of this?" receiving only a smile and wave as the other man slid by to chat up the first group of men who were shooting dice, trying to stay out of the way of the cleared section of barn floor.

William made a face _. If I am not careful someone will ask me to dance!_

 **X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X**

His ears were ringing. "Guillaume, ne partez pas! Nous commençons tout juste…" William's elbow was painfully wrapped in a meaty hand, and it took a manoeuver to release himself and escape being hauled into a _gavotte_. The barn had no heat source as a precaution against fire but felt so sweltering due to the warmth of the horses and the men's bodies that the cold outside was as welcome as the relative quiet. Daniel was already waiting outside for him.

"Daniel, what did you find out?" he asked, pushing a finger in his ear. "It seems to me this is a fool's errand. I can't keep all their stories straight."

"It only matters if _they_ cannot keep _their_ story straight. But I agree with you-no one in there seems to be obviously guilty or brooding about anything, and everyone currently letting loose in the barn seems to be accounted for around the time of Tremblay's demise."

William nodded and took in a deep breath. "My observation as well, if we can believe them. It sounds like the logging crews who were all working can vouch for each other with stories about the gusts that swept through. So it has to be someone else." This was frustrating to him in the extreme—too messy. He longed for some way to put his thoughts outside his head so he could look at them objectively.

Daniel must have noticed, because he said so. "Unless two men are involved and giving each other an alibi. Patience, William. This'll be like searching the forest for a perfect ship's mast-the best, straightest, tallest tree, free of branches, and bringing it down in one piece without shattering and then getting it dressed and transported. No. This is enough for tonight. Tomorrow we'll observe the men as they prepare for Mass, and work on motive."

"No one seems to have changed their opinion of Tremblay either. They either did not like him or didn't think about him much—the new men of course did not know him at all. Perhaps we need to speak with his brother- in- law, François Gagnon. He tolerated him more than most, for the sake of his sister I am told." William remained ambivalent. Tremblay was, in William's opinion, crude, lazy, swore too much and cared more for his machine than his co-workers.

"I think that's for you to do. You spent time with Tremblay and his engine—express your condolences tomorrow and see what you get. _Allez._ I am tired and want to smoke a pipe before bed." With that Daniel moved off towards their bunkhouse.

William walked behind him more slowly so he could think. A murder. Suspicion thrown on his co-workers. Poking our noses into other people's business. _What is Daniel dragging me into?_

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	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Father Campeau arrived Sunday morning and set up for confession prior to Mass, so William was expecting to be first in line (as usual) and then help set up the barn as their Church before donning robes and assisting as one of the altar-boys. William washed and dressed carefully in his best white shirt to head outside, away from the groans and chaos of the bunkhouse.

Getting to the barn, he was surprised someone was occupying the priest already, but as he had no other choice than to wait, he started sweeping the floor clean of Saturday night's refuse. One by one the cook staff joined him and together they set up an altar for the Mass and Eucharist. For pews, the deacon benches would be brought down; later, tables would be set up for the camp's weekly communal meal.

In French he commented, "Father Campeau always says it is better to celebrate Mass in a stable than not celebrate it at all," and got a laugh from his companions.

"Yes! But not so long that the food gets cold!" Cook threw back. "Then again, you lot never taste it anyway."

"Unfair, Monsieur Claude," William answered. "Sunday is always your masterpiece. Your pastry is magnificent!" _Assuming the kitchen staff could get in and out of the confessional and back to making the meal_ … William frowned, a little irritated at the delay. _What was taking someone so long?_

It was a big joke among the men that there was almost no opportunity _to_ sin in a logging camp such as theirs, so confession was as brief an exercise as possible. William's mind wandered. _Could whomever was in with the Father be confessing to murder, right this very moment_?

He nearly dropped his broom when François Gagnon emerged from the confessional and immediately darted off, crushing his hat in his hands.

 **X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X**

"I think I have the final list of men who are mostly unaccounted for when Tremblay died." Daniel waited until they were alone and bringing their bunkhouse's table down to the barn together. "His bunkmates were not fond of him either, but as they are mostly new bull-cocks they were stuck with his ways. Only the headman for his bunkhouse, Pierre Cote, hasn't a witness for where he was when the wind struck. He says he was actually looking for Tremblay; Charbonneau was furious because Tremblay was not by the Steam donkey where he belonged & the two of them were searching high and low. Cote thought he was trying to avoid doing more work."

"So Cote had opportunity?" William wondered.

"Perhaps-but no motive I can find. I've been asking around for anyone who had a beef with Tremblay or benefitted from his demise." Daniel looked sharply at William. "Present company excepted, of course. You didn't kill him to become the new steam mechanic did you?"

William was not amused at the assumption he'd be a good suspect, but relented as Daniel smiled broadly, showing he was teasing. "You had a good idea about watching the men in Church today." William told Daniel about seeing Tremblay's brother-in-law exit the confessional. "But I do not understand how that helps us. What transpired is under the seal of the confessional, inviolate." William felt very troubled.

"Yes," Daniel answered. "A good investigation needs facts, and clues that may point to facts. Your observation is a clue—it'll be up to us to get to make sense of it, get to the bottom of it." He hefted the table top to get a better grip.

"Then what? If we discover what we think of as facts—whom would we tell? Who would listen?" William felt himself growing angry. "Who will care?" He stumbled and jammed his hand painfully between the table edge and a tree.

"Easy there. This has riled you up in a way I didn't anticipate. The truth, William. Always care about the truth."

"That is just it. I do. And it is a double-edged sword," William said more forcefully than he intended, but refused to say anything more revealing.

The tables were set up quickly. The big Sunday meal gave everyone an opportunity to sit with anyone they chose, to catch up with or gossip, yet most men still sat with their bunkmates. After the priest's blessing, the camp's one-hundred men were served, noisily tucking into their food and opening their letters. William looked around at the assembled workers-for the first time he felt uneasy in their company.

"Perhaps you are wrong," he blurted out to Daniel, checking to see no one was paying attention to the two of them.

Daniel halted the progress of his fork to his mouth for a second, then bit down. "Perhaps. Then I'll be wrong. But I know myself. I'll not stop until I know if I am right or not and I haven't any more questions to ask."

He heard the passion behind Daniel's words, making William vacillate between wanting to move forward and backing out. Finally intrigue won the battle. "What do you want me to do?"

"Talk with Gagnon. He'll expect you to. Maybe he knows something." Daniel motioned with his utensil. "He's over there, by himself. You know he can't read or write. You could offer to help him write to his sister—if he's going to notify her about her husband he's going to have to send the letter along with Father Campeau when the priest leaves after our meal.…"

Looking over to where François Gagnon was sitting, William saw the man pushing food around on his dish and there was bench space beside him. Daniel gestured encouragingly, so William picked up his plate and went over to sit next to Gagnon and offer the socially correct comfort. "Je tenais à te faire part de mes sincères condoléances."

Gagnon did not look up. He sat there unresponsive for several moments, before mumbling in French. "That is all right, Guillaume, you don't have to pretend. My sister did not like him much either these days." His head remained down, interested only in the dish in front of him.

William had not expected that, not sure what the revelation meant. "Never the less, she might want to know he passed on."

Gagnon remained silent while William finished his plate, sopping up the last of the gravy with a piece of bread. William was sure there would be nothing more from the man and was about to give up when Gagnon started talking.

"Tell Marguerite I am sorry that he died, and that it happened quickly without him even feeling it happening-a lie perhaps, but a kindness as well. Tell her every soul here helped put him to rest in a Christian way; that would be important to her. Tell her we buried him up here in the pines and I will send his pay and a little more. Tell her I love her…"

After getting started, Gagnon made a running commentary on his brother- in- law and life back in Québec City, most of which made little sense to William. He finished the letter, had Gagnon sign it and got it to Father Campeau in time. To Daniel he reported his impression of François Gagnon. "I think he feels guilty that he did not like his brother- in- law. He certainly blamed him for his sister's unhappiness and is bitter about him taking his sister out of the Church when they married."

"D' you think Gagnon killed Tremblay?"

William shrugged. "He intimated Tremblay might have been abusive to his sister or strayed from his marriage vows, but as reprehensible as that is, how is that motive? Up here?"

"Tremblay was unpleasant or argumentative with everyone -I can find no new cause for someone to hate him enough to kill him."

"I am also certain Gagnon believes it was the tree that killed Tremblay. He talked about it as if it was God's Will for the tree to fall," William said.

"That's interesting. Also interestingly enough, he doesn't seem to have an alibi for the time of death-or what we think of as the time of death. He was supposed to be with Martin, but Martin says Gagnon was nowhere around." Daniel saw William's eyebrows rise. "I can't confirm where Charbonneau was either, nor most of the cook staff since it turns out Cook and everyone else was on their break."

Both men tended their own thoughts. William spoke first. "I am not sure about all of this, Daniel. How are you ever going to sort it out?"

 _No more 'we.'_ Daniel sighed. _Perhaps I misjudged him._ "I told you. I'll ask questions until I get answers."

William left the barn to go back to his bunk. He usually spent Sundays reading books, or tinkering with small things; one or two men played chess with him when he was not employed as a secretary for his workmates. William tried to get comfortable by putting his good shirt aside and resume a thick sweater, yet found himself unable to concentrate on the bundle of his long-awaited _Scientific American_ magazines, so dearly purchased with his hard-earned wages and dog-eared from their journey to his hands.

He was irritated by questions which circled in his brain, _planted there by Daniel,_ he complained to himself. He went over their conversations from multiple angles, all the secrets, all the problems with no solution. _This is ridiculous! He is just having a go at me as his new partner_. William liked that idea the more he concentrated on it. _This is just how Daniel is testing me! Tomorrow we will start cutting and will have no time at all for him to tease me with this puzzle. 'Tested until trusted' –indeed._ He smiled at how foolish he'd been to get taken in by the older man, deciding the next time he saw Daniel he'd reveal he caught on to the game. That felt good- so good that his mind cleared nicely allowing him to happily read his magazines until the light got too dim even for his young eyes, tuning out the noise of the bunkhouse and all other distractions.

That was why it took him so long to understand what the commotion was about at the door. Blanchard's voice was raised in warning as a cold blast entered the room. "Idiot! Do not bring him here, take him to Charbonneau for attention."

William looked up from his page, trying to see beyond the hanging clothing and knot of men. "What is it?" he asked.

One of the men answered. "It's Beecham. I'm told he's fallen on the ice and hit his head. He's unconscious!"

 **X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

William got his outer jacket back on in a hurry and took off after the stretcher, squeezing himself into the small room behind the camp office which was set aside for treating the inevitable injuries during a logging operation. Behind the official business area were two private rooms-one for the foreman's quarters and one for an infirmary, where the resident medic, Albert Saulnier, also slept. Daniel was laid on the spare bed and Saulnier bent to tend him, peering under the bloody cloth someone had used to staunch the head wound.

He looked carefully at Daniel's eyes, checked his pulse and breathing, then addressed his limbs looking for bone breaks. Daniel seemed to be responding a bit. "Bien! Heureusement que sa tête est dure !" Several of the men laughed nervously about the victim's hard head. The medic continued his rapid French. "Seeing blood is good. He will be out of it for a little while, I think. I can find no broken bones. We will have to watch him." He arranged Daniel comfortably and created a bandage for the wound while giving the rest of his medical assessment, then shooed everyone out.

William remained, staring at Daniel. "How is blood a good thing?" He could not help himself asking-it looked bad, even worse than Tremblay's injury.

"You are his new partner, looking out for him?" Saulnier answered, "I have seen this before from head wounds-they bleed like a stuck pig. The real damage depends on how a man is struck and where. I have seen a fight where a man gets his face punched or falls and then gets back up-seems everything is fine-and then he is dead within the day because his bleeding is inside the skull." He turned to his patient. "Beecham here himself knocked out good, but is coming around and I hope for the best. It is good he has not been one of those who regularly gets into the losing end of a brawl."

William's mind was racing as he left the infirmary to fetch ice for his partner's head. Daniel had indeed come around briefly, with Saulnier asking if him if remembered his own name, who William was, _where_ he was and if he remembered falling. Daniel was affirmative for the first three, but for the last question he mumbled a word before lapsing unconscious again.

William could have sworn the word was ' _pushed_.'

On the way back from delivering ice to the infirmary he asked one of the men where Daniel was found and then took an extra loop of trail up to where Tremblay was killed. He had no idea what he was actually looking for. The death scene looked so clean and innocent, wrapped as it was in pristine white blanket of snow, that he almost walked right past. He came away wondering exactly why Tremblay was so far off the path, feeling dissatisfied and foolish while walking back to see where an unconscious Daniel was discovered. The only connection he could see was that both areas were not in any direct line of sight from main camp. Daniel's drive to know the truth was already infecting William.

William walked back towards main camp, turning the questions over in his mind for a solution, recalling the teachers at St. Ignatius were often an odd combination of pleased and despairing when, as a student, he had a problem in his teeth and could not let go. _Where to begin now?_ _Motive, means and opportunity._ Daniel had explained these were the question to be answered, so William accepted that idea.

He started laying it out in his head. _Means was easy-some sort of stick or handle bashed Tremblay's head in-or at least that is what Daniel believed. For opportunity it was anyone who was not where he was supposed to be or had no witness to his whereabouts. For motive, we are looking at men who had a problem with Tremblay…._

William automatically stepped back from that idea, because that would indicate someone amongst the men he'd been living and working with for the last month, eating with, going to Church with while the camp was set up, was a killer, and it made him feel slightly sick. Another terrible thought intruded _: Is it possible Daniel got too close to finding out who that was?_ The suspicion in his gut was growing that his partner was assaulted because he was nosing around.

Something _else_ was nagging at him, just below his awareness, including that, one way or the other, he needed to know what had actually happened to both men. _Unless Daniel regains consciousness soon and is able to tell me anything, it is going to be up to me to find out._

The more he thought about it, the more he was concerned about Gagnon's behavior at confession and while dictating the letter to his sister. Without knowing what else Daniel had learned, William decided to start by questioning Gagnon, if only he could figure out the best way to do so. _"So, do you feel guilty because you killed your brother-in-law?"_ was hardly a civil opening line of communication. He asked himself what Father Keegan might have done, remembering the priest was always good at getting the truth out of him.

William had no trouble at all locating François Gagnon. The man was in the barn, working on making a marker for Tremblay's grave, using the available wood-working tools usually reserved for furniture construction or repairs. William stopped to admire the work and quietly hand over the next tool. In the silence William began his inquiry.

"Today you beat me to see Father Campeau. He must have been surprised it was you and not me." William paused. "You seemed so upset about your brother-in-law's death…I hope the good Father gave you some peace…"

Gagnon scraped and scraped at the wood, then used a wooden mallet to start carving letters. He sighed several times, obviously trying to decide if he wanted this conversation or not, but the silence did its work. "My sister would not be a widow were it not for me. I often had bad thoughts about François, I hated him at times for his ways. When the tree came down… I wondered if it was God's punishment for his transgressions, but then I thought about it was me that sent him there." He hung his head. "I pray I did not do the Devils' work instead."

"What do you mean she would not be a widow but for you?" William's heart raced, but he managed to say it calmly, slowly, focusing on what he thought was the most important question.

"I sent him up there to meet with one of the new men who was asking after him, Pierre Leblanc, and I thought Leblanc had gone up the ridge. I guess he never found him." Gagnon sighed again, brushing curls of wood off the marker. "I sent him up the mountain, then the big wind started and François… he came down in a shroud."

"I see. Did this Leblanc say what he wanted?" William held his breath.

"To renew an acquaintance. François wanted to talk with him as well. Seems they never got the chance."

X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X

William walked away from the barn absorbed in thought, not knowing what to do with this information. It had never occurred to William or Daniel that one of the recently arrived men might have suddenly taken it upon themselves to commit murder, expecting no possible motive to have erupted in a mere few days- even with a personality as difficult as Tremblay.

William questioned himself. _I have no proof, only a theory. How can I tie this together more tightly?_ He made a quick circuit, looking for Leblanc, and found him in an adjoining bunkhouse. He pretended to need to speak with the headman by giving an update on Daniel's condition, all the while watching Leblanc out of the corner of his eye. William recognized the signs—years watching his peers at school gave him that knowledge. _Guilty, that man feels guilty..._

Back in his bunkhouse, William took out a scrap of paper and sketched his thoughts. He wanted at least one more indication that this Leblanc fellow might have given a _coup de grace_ to Tremblay, and poured over what he remembered of Daniel's original list. He no longer believed Gagnon was responsible for his brother- in- law's death. _If Tremblay was going to meet with a friend, that can explain why he was away from his station because our foreman cannot abide men standing round just talking. If Charbonneau was also looking for Tremblay, that can explain why he was first on the scene rather than him being the killer. Besides, he had no weapon and we could not find a motive for the foreman to have committed this act._

Dark was closing in fast with no resolution. Restless, William went for a walk finding his feet taking him back to the office. Inside, 'Taureau' Charbonneau was doing paperwork in his room, and Daniel remained unawares in the infirmary. Saulnier greeted him. "Will you spell me, Guillaume? Beecham is sleeping lightly now, and I want to stretch my legs." William agreed because it was going to give him time to search Daniel's possessions—he had only made that decision as he arrived by the bedside.

As soon as he was alone, he started. "Well, Daniel. Let's see what you have here…" William muttered under his breath.

Daniel was down to his woolen underwear, lying under thick blankets, with his outerwear drying near a small heating stove. Closing the door carefully, he started searching Daniels pockets, coming up with Daniel's list. If Daniel was assaulted because of the questions he was asking, the assailant did not know enough to pinch the page holding the names. William's eyes widened when he searched the sheet of paper. Daniel had in fact been crossing out names: all of them, in fact, were crossed off. _So, if it is not one of the original crew, then it has to one of the men who arrived this week._ He finished his snooping and was waiting nervously when Saulnier returned, bidding him good night.

William almost knocked on the foreman's doorframe, then kept walking-enthusiasm for reporting his suspicion was fading fast. "Guillaume!" Charbonneau stopped him. "I will put you with Martin tomorrow if he'll have you. Poor Daniel—I hope this slip and fall does not end him as a lumberman, God willing." William gave an uncomprehending look until the foreman added: "I don't think he will be back in the trees in twelve hours, do you?"

Shaking his head, William could not make himself move his feet. Swallowing, he asked if Charbonneau had a moment, getting a sour look but being waved into the small bed-sit arrangement. "Sir. I don't know if you heard him, but I think Daniel told us he did not just slip and fall—I thought I heard him say he was pushed…" When Charbonneau snorted an objection, William continued. "Sir … Daniel and, um…I have been worried that Tremblay was not killed by the tree falling on him. Daniel showed me a wound on his head – he thought someone killed Tremblay by hitting him with a round handle of some kind…." William related the details to his boss, who was more and more disturbed as his young employee went on. William's mouth was dry and he was breathing hard.

Charbonneau gave into his anger when William paused to take a breath. "So, you think Leblanc did this?"

"I think it is possible. Originally we thought it might be you… because you were the one who called for help. But I noticed you did not have any tools with you, nothing to have hit Tremblay with." William rushed on as the foreman's face purpled. "I think this Pierre Leblanc had an issue with Tremblay from something in the past, and finished him off after the tree already fell on him…and I think he tried to kill Daniel." His mind felt sharp and satisfied in a new way, even if he was scared to death. "Gagnon knew both of them were acquainted and sent Tremblay right up to meet him. The timing is right. The opportunity is right." William was also very sure his intuition was correct as well.

"So! Beecham has been teaching you more than about being a lumberman, no?" He set his glasses aside to rise. "D'Acord. I will speak with Leblanc. Sit…!" he said when William got up to accompany him. "This is very serious and you should have come to me before this. Out here this is my job, and you should have trusted me." Charbonneau glared at him. "I will keep you and Daniel out of this."

X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X

Once confronted by Charbonneau, Leblanc crumbled. He explained he was shocked that of all the places he could find himself, to be in tight company with Tremblay was an act of fate. Tremblay was nasty and dismissive, taunted him when they spoke. When the tree fell, Leblanc also took that as the hand of God, and said at first he felt he did the Lord's work in sending Tremblay to Hell. He was babbling on about how he found finishing off Tremblay irresistible, his motive being revenge for the death of his sister. By the next morning guilt ate at him and he was considering running away when Charbonneau questioned him.

William was back in two days' time, having been in the party that took Leblanc to the depot and turned him over to another set of men who would transport him on to Bytown authorities. Daniel was awake and sensible by the time William checked in on him to tell more of the story.

"Leblanc wanted to confront Tremblay, get him to admit to what he had done, believing the man had raped his sister Jeanette, after which the young girl suicided," William related to Daniel who was sitting up and taking nourishment. "He could not stop talking about it all the way to the depot. I had never seen a man cry so…"

"You got to the truth, William. How does that feel?"

The whole thing brought up painful memories which stirred his insides into knots. Seeing Daniel face down on the ground and hearing Saulnier talk about brains bleeding inside the skull brought back a gut-wrenching, disorienting flash of his own mother face down in a stream, along with powerful feelings of rage towards his father, now that he knew Harry was responsible for her death. _The truth brought pain_. It nearly choked him when he let himself think about it. William also knew he had been less disgusted at Leblanc's behavior than he had been with Tremblay. "It will have to do, I guess. I believe Leblanc should not have taken the law into his own hands, should have trusted in the law. But Jeanette Leblanc is still dead. "

"Yes. Yes she is." Daniel was quiet.

Into that silence, William asked him. "Why did you want to find this out? And what did Charbonneau mean about teaching me more than being a lumberman?"

"Ah, William! There's a story or two. D'you know I was not always a lumberjack…? Many years ago I was one of those law enforcement authorities you hauled that poor sod off to, a constable back when there was barely a police force anywhere. I liked it well enough…but I liked this better." He looked critically at William. "I must say you seem to take to police work quite naturally." Daniel laid back down on the pillows. "I stay so dizzy, my balance is off and this headache will not go away. I think Charbonneau will send me back to town if I cannot be useful here."

William frowned. "So you will not work here this winter?" He was already feeling disconnected from the other lumbermen and to miss out on being partnered with Daniel was going to hurt.

"Not unless you can teach me about that steam engine!" Daniel chuckled. "You don't seem as eager to get into the trees yourself William. I think you really enjoyed figuring out the puzzle didn't you? In fact, you just solved your first case."

"Daniel," William pulled a chair closer to the bed, "I will tell you about the steam engine if you tell me more about being a constable…."

 **X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X0**

 **-END-**

 **Dear Reader: Thank you for travelling back in time with me; I love filling in 'holes' in the plots. I hope you like my story—reviewing is easy so give it a try! I learn from your feedback and appreciate your encouragement. Also write if you have a story suggestion, especially for another 'origins' tale where ever the cannon is silent about something in William's past or any other character you'd like to see me give a try.**

 **Retraction/correction: For those who are much better at keeping the whole MM backstories in your heads than I am...I just discovered today 4/1/2017 that the April Fool's joke is on me. NOW I discover that William was at a northern Ontario Lumber Camp (p. 43 of my very own "Investigating Murdoch Mysteries: The official companion to the series" book.) Ghaagh. _Mea Culpa_... . I stioll hope you like this version anyways...rg **

**Author's Note: full co-writing credits due to "Dutch" who rescued the ending and my "stylist" and beta reader on this one was I'dBeDelighted. Any good stuff is because they helped and errors are mine alone. Thank you Maureen Jennings and the show writers for allowing us to play in your world and with these wonderful, complex characters.**

 **Speaking of which: Unfortunately there is a wee discrepancy in the 'cannon' about the timing of William as a lumberjack—Susannah says at age 17 he went there to work in logging ("Voices") but in another episode (Glass Ceiling) he says (or seems to say) he went right from Montreal to working as a lumberjack 2 winters then on to Toronto to apply for a job as a constable. He arrives at Mrs. Kitchen's in January 1885 and starts working. So there is a 2-year-ish gap/hole. I chose to imagine he initially tried to get a logging job at age 17 but was not taken on right away (something Susannah would not have known), but he eventually works there the winters he is 19 and 20, then leaves at age 21 before completing the third winter season to start his life as a constable, squaring the dates a little better.**

 **And speaking of possible errors in this piece: Lumberjack was a trade of the manliest-man variety. The work was brutally difficult and at one time half of all Canadian men did indeed work in the industry. Although the internet is a wonderful thing, it did not tell me everything about life in a 1880's French Canadian logging camp (big surprise!) but I did my best to depict what I thought William's experience could have been—and made up the rest based on educated guesses. Logging camps in the 1880's were in fact generally all male & alcohol free (the better to keep the men in line and safer to be dry than drunk with all those tall trees and sharp tools), 12+ hour days with short silent meals (getting 7,000 calories in a day took dedication—so no talking with your mouth full.) There were other aspects of the operation that sometime included women—wives of the foreman or the cook, and more women were brought along in other locations and later on as time went on—but for this story I went with the all-male version and assumed it was possible to be all or nearly all Catholic since the French Canadians were predominantly Catholic. **


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